standard disclaimers apply: i don't own atla, i'm just playing and like all fun, i don't get paid (in $).
this is my first "story" to be read by someone other than me. this was part of a greater story i was going to write but i'm not so sure now (never having written a story and having many reservations about doing so). i just had to write this scene for fear of it forever tormenting me. hope you enjoy- feedback would be more than appreciated.
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Over Azula's shoulder, he catches a look on her face that is impossibly sad. More than that- confusion and regret and pain suffuse together to create an achingly beautiful, sorrowful expression he will remember for the rest of his life.
He watches her take a deep, steadying breath and her burnt, scarred arms reluctantly begin to move in the graceful, familiar sway of waterbending. A few blocks and attacks until he turns his dance with Azula around again so he might steal another glance. Katara's eyes are closed, her eyelashes resting gently against her cheeks and he very nearly hears her internal pep-talk as she coaches herself through the rhythmic motions.
But all the water she'd brought with her has evaporated. He assumes she could pull some of the droplets back from the depths beneath the stone, but she couldn't possibly retrieve an amount substantial enough to defeat Azula.
Azula, who had scarred her so hideously. Almost more so than his own defection, had she moved her hands to Katara's face. Katara's Water Tribe robe hung limply from what cloth remained around her neck, the rest burned off and blackened at the edges. Her white underclothes, also frayed and tinged grey, were visible. Katara's collar and upper arms would be blue, with her shoulders a deeper, darker shade, once the blood had been washed away and the scabs healed, of course. Maybe even a blue that would match her eyes. He stops himself before he thinks how the scar of blue flame had differed in pain from his scar of red, but he knows he'll never ask her.
He moves almost absentmindedly in time with Azula; never gaining ground and never relenting any. He tries to concentrate on the fight, although he knows without water, Katara is vulnerable and without Katara, they have lost. Katara's choked sob shakes him from his despairing thoughts and a distant part of him (the soldier) realizes he had been on the defensive for the last few moments.
With her arms rocking back and forth with a purposeful power he had has never before seen, Katara's eyes flash open. Their intensity stills his leg and he lowers it slowly, distractedly. He catches Azula's smirk in the corner of his eye and she raises her hand to deliver the finishing blow when her eyes suddenly lose focus. She presses her previously lethal hands against her chest and then whips abruptly around, face feral and mouth opening with shocked, ferocious words ready to destroy Katara.
But they hear nothing. That is, not until Azula drops dead onto the stones below. The sound is something neither of them has ever heard and the sight is something they hope never to see again – a hush, a gust of air, a sigh.
Zuko averts his eyes from the dry, ash-like form of what had been his sister's body. Instead, he looks toward Katara and finds her bent over and retching the meal they'd eaten last night with her friends. He hesitates, almost too afraid to go near her, when he reprimands himself and strides over to place a soothing, caring hand on her back.
She shudders and shies away from the touch, sitting up on her knees with her eyes downcast.
"Please, it's hard enough looking at my own hands, I don't need to be reminded of how very solid and alive you are as well." Her words are angry, yet quiet and smooth and her tone is regretful, but not pitying. She knows what she has done, she had chosen to do so, and no amount of self-pity can save her from the brutal truth that she'd just taken a life.
"She deserved it. You know that, that's why you did it. Why you had to do it." He is not pitying either, barely even sensitive in his quick analysis because he knows she doesn't want his words – she wants truth, time, and healing.
He reaches out and this time, his hand meets the soft, unblemished skin of her forearm; he wasn't sure if she was ready to have anyone touch her scars. They were a few minutes fresh and he knew in all the time he'd had his scar, only Katara had touched it. In many ways, watching Azula burn blue fire into Katara's skin had been like reliving his own marking. She was stronger than him, though, so he could not be sure how she would react.
He gradually pulled her unresisting form to him and wrapped his arms around her, sufficiently enveloping her. He had wanted to hide as well after he had taken a life (however indirectly).
"You've just saved millions," he whispers comfortingly against her hair and continues even quieter, "regardless of how Aang is faring against my father." He feels the strong, lithe muscles of her body tighten and he winces, cursing himself. He should not have brought that up, she needed time to rest.
She looks up at him – countenance switching from alarmed to courageous quicker than he could blink – and he sighs in resignation, following her as she leads him hurriedly toward the throne room.
There will be no rest until there is peace… We will never rest.
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hope you liked it! and please review : )